


best of men

by theoreticallytrying



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, In one sitting, M/M, Post-Canon, Redemption, honestly I just really wanted a happy ending for them, so i wrote it myself, this book tore my heart out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticallytrying/pseuds/theoreticallytrying
Summary: There is no hesitation when I shake my head, for I do not regret any part of knowing him. He is all I have now, and aside from Briseis, he is all I ever had. I have long since let go of princely pride, and breathe freely in the dichotomy of us. Achilles will be written in history and my story will be consigned to his. “I am glad with your honor. I do not want it any other way.”(or, the 4k+ afterlife oneshot where Patroclus, at long last, loves and is loved.)
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 222





	best of men

_In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy, dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun._

The streaming light illuminates his features, his golden hair.

_Achilles._

He is a wisp of an idea, the breath of a dead man. But we are both the ghosts of memories now. My chest aches with release.

_Achilles._

He is beautiful. His eyes are unburdened and soft, like they were during our days of shared youth on Phthia, or lazy spring afternoons spent with Chiron. I wonder if death has tempered his arrogance, done what I could not in life. 

_“Achilles,”_ I whisper finally, and he begins to weep.

* * *

“Patroclus,” he says, as I cradle his warmth. _Pat-ro-clus._ I could wrap myself in the rounded syllables of his voice. Our spirits are mingled with our touch, just as our ashes sleep in the ground. We are dead, and nothing but a flurry of souls. “I…”

I garner what he struggles to say. He thinks my death his fault, regardless of the throbbing venom he spat at Briseis. And in a way, he would be right. But I have never held him to be indebted to me; he knew I would follow him to death. That I would always, always forgive him without ceremony. “You do not have to be sorry.”

“I am.” He is thankful that I understand. 

I do not think he has ever felt the need to apologize to me. Just as his lover’s jealousy is foreign, so are the realized mistakes of _Aristos Achaion._ Yet here he is, stumbling over his thoughts into my waiting arms. Even through pride and pain I have never doubted his love. 

“I did not know if I would ever see you again. I could not bear to be apart from you. I knew at once they had not marked your name, or had not buried us together—” As he speaks, anger rises in him like a crescent wave. I watch tension line his frame. “Agamemnon must have prevented it from being so.”

I am quick to quell. “He did not. It was your son Pyrrhus. He did not...he did not want my name to taint yours.”

Achilles’s expression darkens further. Surely he remembers the prophecies about his son—that Pyrrhus will be the one to defeat Troy and become the next great Grecian hero _._ The young Pyrrhus was a sign of his growing older, a personification of his fading chance at glory. “That is no son of mine.”

I do not know what else to say. “He is dead.”

Thetis relayed this to me mere minutes ago, and I again cannot help but feel glad at Pyrrhus’s fate.

Something in Achilles relaxes. “How?”

“He was killed by one of Agamemnon’s sons. He took his bride and ravished her.” 

“I see,” he murmurs, distractedly. Achilles has just lost his only direct descendant, and with it his entire bloodline, but he does not care for that. He cares for me. “Then who wrote your name?”

“It was your mother,” I say, and he turns to me with shock. I feel memories wash over him, us—seaside visits, slipping out of windows at dawn, fierce arguments and a final scathing statement: _I am glad that he is dead._ “She has grown softer.” I wait a moment, and when he does not respond, I continue, small halts between my sentences. “She misses you. And she cannot visit you here.”

Achilles’s voice spills out like warm honey: confused, but thankful. “She hated you, Patroclus. I hated her for that, in the end.” 

There is a hint of something else in his words, a small criticism. _You have always been too forgiving,_ or, _you are so quick to trust._ I remember a time when I would have thought that of him. Thus, I also know these thoughts are born out of concern. 

I am dead now and I do not have need for grudges. “Perhaps she is changed after the death of someone whom she loved.” He must understand this, if nothing else. 

Achilles considers this, then lets the thought pass. “I am glad you are with me now.” 

I am, as well—the comfort I feel in returning to his presence is more than I could ever express. The longest we had been apart in twenty years of togetherness was his brief internment in Scyros. I do not agree with all that Achilles had done. Perhaps I had licensed too much in my willing loyalty. But I swore to make him happy even before we had reached the cusp of manhood, and I have healed and done what I could to alleviate the hurt he caused.

We are silent for a few moments, as if we were children again, lying on a pallet with sticky fig juice on our fingertips. Here we are no longer outrunning fate; existence seems to have opened up the infinite possibility of forever to our minds yet again.

There is something I want to say, though I have an eternity to say it. I am still not used to having this surplus of time, like freshwater overflowing from a pitcher. I think about my final moments of life—that thrill of power and a feverish fantasy of heroism, the spear twisting in my chest. “I understood you, Achilles. When I was in that chariot, wearing your armor. I felt close to you.”

Achilles does not immediately respond, and I think of how long he has wandered alone in the afterlife, this empty and open silence. How many times has he relieved the happy memories of his childhood or his battles at Troy? Has he imagined my last moments of life, intermingled with memories of his? I do not know. Still, there is not much else to do here but think.

His voice is light, soft. It is careful, a tone I have rarely heard him take, and that he reserves only for me. “I do not know much of how you died.”

“I…” _I disobeyed you. I lifted your spears and killed, I killed and killed and killed. I was a healer but I killed. Their currant blood looked like spilled wine and like a drunkard I wanted_ more _. I understand you and your thirst, now. I wanted honor, too. I wanted it for you._

My mind suddenly runs red with images of scars and fallen men, and I cannot say more. He turns to me with concern, sees the tears streaking down my face. He puts his hands to my cheeks in a display of comfort, touches our phantom noses tenderly together. 

These words spill over my thoughts without beckoning, and I cannot control this flood. “It was so easy,” I manage to choke out as I drown, and he nods as if he knows. I know that he does. Of course Achilles, with his strong hands and quick step, will know.

* * *

Later we drift along the expanse of the afterlife, comfortable in companionship. I try to think of the last time we were truly at peace together, unburdened like this. Was it that last day with Chiron before we were forced into manhood? Or while we were sailing to Aulis before Achilles received a command? Perhaps it was in those short glimpses of laughter snatched with Briseis at our nighttime hearth. I find that in reliving these later moments, I do not find a real feeling of peace—rather short, fleeting instants interspersed with the gentle maturing of time. 

I do not know if this is the simple byproduct of growing older. Somewhere along my brief existence I stopped dreaming of a future where I would grow old with Achilles, where we would together develop smiling wrinkles along our eyes or raise children to be strong and compassionate. If tomorrow wasn’t a certainty, how could a peaceful future be? The longer the war wore on, the longer we lived, the more the prophecy of the Fates seemed inevitable. I suppose that this is always so; though many mortals dream of evading the roars of destiny, it always reaches us like a spear thrust through the heart.

Achilles is tormented with questions of his own; I can tell by his tight expression. He turns to me. “Did you…”

He trails off, and we stop walking. I search his expression. “What is it?”

He glances away. Meekness is strange to see on him. “You said you understood me. When you put on my armor and went to battle.”

“I did.” I understood all of you, Achilles. I do not condone, but I love you the same. “The Trojans parted at the briefest glimpse of me—you. This one battle was overwhelming for me. And yet you lived this every day for a decade.”

I see a flash of Achilles’s telltale grin. I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile like this, confident and assured, since I arrived in the afterlife. Oh, how I’ve missed you. I feel my heart grow lighter. “Yes, and I wish you would have been there to see it more. I was glorious, Patroclus, a hero. They fell like autumn leaves in the wind.”

“I know.” 

Achilles continues, the smile falling from his lips. He looks at me, as if considering my features for the very first time. “Did you…want honor as well? I would have hoisted you on my shoulders and paraded you through the tents if I had known.” 

There are more words on his tongue. I share him now; I feel this weight shuffle uncomfortably in my throat. He thinks that in dressing as him, I have glimpsed his addiction and am drawn to glory as he is. I hear his unspoken questions. _Do you regret being outshined by me? Are you bitter of being shackled to my destiny, rather than developing a fate of your own?_

This guilt he feels towards me is new, like his earlier apology. Perhaps Paris’s arrow carried more than the wishes of the Fates.

I do not think he has ever considered me in this way, just as I had never truly considered him on the battlefield until my final day. But there is no hesitation when I shake my head, for I do not regret any part of knowing him. He is all I have now, and aside from Briseis, he is all I ever had. I have long since let go of princely pride, and breathe freely in the dichotomy of us. Achilles will be written in history and my story will be consigned to his. “I am glad with your honor. I do not want it any other way.”

He nods. A moment passes, and we begin to wander forward again, before another thought strikes him that gives him pause. 

“Do you still think I will be hated?” he asks softly. I see the glint of his golden hair, and remember this conversation— the wild tears and futile begging, the cold strangeness of Achilles and the overwhelming fear that he might be too far removed from my pleas. In my last attempt, I told him he was destroying himself, that he would be hated and cursed by his people instead of loved. _Patroclus,_ he had responded, _I will not do this. Do not ask again._

Then, he seemed so far away from me. He would not acquiesce to me, much less Agamemnon. He loved me, but did not understand my wishes. 

I do not make that same mistake. He still finds happiness in honor. “No,” I lie. 

I worry that all heroes are the same. Their names are heralded with reverence, but also as a warning against their folly. And I know that my Achilles ranks among the greatest of these men.

Achilles knows that I have lied. We do not lie to each other, but I shift to grant him this. Our essences are imbued now, yet he does not say a word.

* * *

Eternity feels like the waves on a beach, the never ending shifting of sand on the shore. With time, Achilles is changed, somewhat. I suppose I am as well. We connect with other souls, some whom we knew, others whom we didn’t. The vast meadows of the afterlife are different than we thought: here it is quiet, without excessive torment or pleasure. It is also blissfully infinite, and I do not want for more.

One day Odysseus, still living, summons the spirit of Achilles to speak. I jokingly tell Achilles to ask the king why he did not summon me as well, and bid him farewell with a smile. I remember Odysseus to be kind and well-spoken, but equally cunning and manipulative. I wonder what he might need from the dead Achilles.

Later Achilles returns, materializing quickly beside me, energized and with a smile. “Odysseus says hello,” he says brightly, “and he told me about my son."

Achilles does not seem angry with this. I do not know much about Pyrrhus besides his lust and youthful death. “What about young Pyrrhus?”

“He was a hero in the war before he died. A fierce warrior, just like me. He was never wounded in combat with Troy.” 

That is more than Achilles can say, but he now bursts with pride for his son, rather than jealousy or hatred. He notes the good and bad of his offspring and values the good. As I said, he is changed; this is more than before. 

I smile. I see how he enjoys my happiness. In death I have let go of grudges. Pyrrhus was a fine warrior, if nothing else. “That is great news, Achilles.” Then with a smirk, I add, “I, for one, have always known your _sword_ carried such power.”

He shoves me, laughing, and I fall into the translucent curve of his neck, running my hands over the soft spirit-skin of his arms. We are glad to be more open with affection in the afterlife; the rare spirits we come across seem to have let go of worldly vigilances. Achilles no longer has a smell, but I remember clearly the pomegranate and sandalwood that I have long-since loved. We kiss then, softly and dearly, as if we were children again and never have before.

I pull away from him after a few minutes, and he makes a small noise of protest. “What did Odysseus want from you?” I ask.

He shakes his head, trails his hand down the small of my back. “He needed guidance on returning to Ithaca.”

I furrow my brow. “Surely it has been years since the end of the war.”

In the afterlife, time seems all muddled together, with no real reason to keep track.

Achilles nods gravely. “It has been multiple years. Odysseus has angered the gods and cannot yet return home.”

A chill rushes through my frame. “And what of his wife?” I remember how much Odysseus loved his Penelope.

“She has been waiting.”

I imagine that for a moment—if I had never gone to fight in Troy. There would have been a decade’s worth of nights of worry and heartache without Achilles. I imagine sitting in our cave in Pelion, crying out with joy hearing that the war is over after ten painful years alone. I imagine travelling down to Phthia’s shore as the boats of soldiers arrive, filled with bated anticipation, watching as other lovers are reunited. Then, upon seeing no sign of Achilles, worrying furiously, clinging to the faint hope that his boat is simply lagging behind or left Troy later than the others. Waiting and waiting and waiting. I think I would go mad.

“That’s terrible,” I say softly. Achilles seems to note my discomfort, and places his head on my shoulder. “I believe Odysseus is a good man. He does not deserve such pain.”

Achilles makes a low noise of noncommittal agreement. 

I stroke a slow hand through his golden curls. “He told me once, before the war, that I should help you leave your soft heart behind. You were incredibly distressed after Iphigenia’s death, do you remember?”

Achilles lifts his head, searching his memory. “Yes, I do remember that,” he says after a moment. I realize he has not thought of Iphigenia’s death—his young bride that never was—in a very long while. And why would he? What is one witnessed death in comparison to tens of thousands?

I know we are both thinking of when we were younger and softer. “Odysseus cared about you then,” I say. “he didn’t want you to hurt. He wanted you to be prepared.” 

“He did,” Achilles agrees. He is quiet, and somewhat sad. I wonder if he regrets how the war has changed him, if he feels nostalgia for a time when defiance was glamorous and the future held nothing but prospects of the world chanting his name. 

I wish sometimes we had never gone to Troy—if we had ignored the kings’ pleas and simply returned to Pelion with Chiron, extending our prime into childish freedom. But I remember quickly Achilles’s terrified expression, whispering to me— _“I do not think I could bear it.”—_ when faced with losing his prospect of fame, of glory. I realized then that I was not yet enough for him; I could never outshadow the pride he placed in his vitality and grace. He feared losing himself and I was not enough. I remind myself of this now: Achilles, at that time, always needed more. And I loved him; I needed to grant him that.

He is changed now. He is content to wander with me in these fields for eternity, just as we frolicked along Phthia’s hills as children. I do not know if he questioned Odysseus about his legacy, and I do not ask.

* * *

We meet Briseis once and only once. Achilles gives her a cordial smile, then excuses himself to let us talk, disappearing quickly. 

I am relieved to see her. I was worried she would have not been buried, and say so with a hug. 

She smiles, and with her crisp language states, “I believe that Phoinix appealed to a few Trojans, and sent them to find my body after you all sailed away.”

I laugh thankfully, and let go of the hug. Briseis steps back, and I take notice of the space between us. She is being careful. She does not know if Achilles is watching, and does not want to inflict his wrath again.

“I saw you and Achilles fight after I was dead,” I say. She flinches down. She knows what she said about him. “I loved you too.” _Though not in the same way._

She gives me a sad look. “I know you did, Patroclus.”

I am still sorry for breaking her heart. But Briseis is kind and understanding and she is dead so she does not keep grudges, though I don’t think she ever has. She knows that if it was not Achilles, it would be her. This must only be a small comfort.

I do not say any of that. Instead, I say, “I am sorry about Pyrrhus. And for how he treated you. If I could go back, I would teach you more about how to defend yourself.” 

I did not consider doing this at the time. Though I knew a few basic fighting drills, I was never meant to be a warrior. The biggest way in that Achilles failed me—not the Greeks, _me—_ was in abandoning Briseis. I trusted him. I did not think training her was necessary, though perhaps I should have.

“I thank you for being so kind to me all of those years,” she says. “And there is no way you would have foreseen this coming. Prryhus is nothing like his father.”

I smile and am about to speak in agreement, but as if on cue, Achilles appears behind me. He puts a hand on my shoulder with a protective glance when I look back towards him. 

“I’m sorry, Briseis,” he, _Aristos Achaion,_ states clearly. My eyes are wide. _What is he doing?_ “For all of my errors and anger. You were correct when you said that Patroclus is worth ten of me, for he is truly the best of men.”

My face flushes. I have done nothing in comparison to either of them. But Briseis simply nods, and we exchange a glance. 

It appears that, impossibly, time has taught Achilles humility.

* * *

The gods of men have shifted. Nature has drawn new lines in the sand. The afterlife, over millennia, appears different than when we first arrived.

It has changed to reflect what the living men believe to be true. And as it appears, in their new favored religion, the dead can watch over earth. Achilles and I look down on the globe now, watching the curious humans that run amuck. Their manners of dress and speech are unfamiliar, though we are nothing but spirits and the barriers of language no longer hold meaning to us. Still, much has changed over the past three-thousand years. But the peculiar yearning of men to collect power and wage war still prevails, even after all this time. 

Achilles is largely pleased with his legend. The brave stories of his exploits are revered by students all over the world—which is much larger than either of us ever imagined. And my name is often written by his side. We are marked in perpetuity; the dream for any man.

There is but one issue. 

“They say we are not lovers,” I whisper to Achilles. Most do, anyway. For all of the humans’ advancements, they still think it shameful for a man to love another man. 

For us long-dead spirits, our legacies are largely marked by how we are spoken about. It is why Achilles did not murder the eighth son of Eeiton. In a way, we live again when our names are spoken and our stories are told—but our earthly truth is no longer dictated by us. 

I want to see if Achilles cares, if this will change his behavior towards me, or if he would accept this narrative if it gives him more honor. 

But he does not do either of those. He does not mind that his glory is misplaced, that he is revered as a man they are ignoring the whole truth of. He is confident in his own legacy and he knows it includes loving me, regardless of what the humans say. 

With his characteristic defiance, he says, “They are wrong. They will learn.”

* * *

We are watching the humans take pictures at the ruins of Troy—now simple stacks of stones and lost memories. The afterlife has been much less _wandering_ and much more _watching_ since we spirits have been able to glimpse the living world.

Achilles turns to me suddenly. “Name one hero who was happy,” he says.

I consider. Achilles wanders ahead, flashing a smile back at me as I think. I know what he wants to hear, and indulge him. “I can’t.”

He laughs. "You can't?"

I think of Heracles, Theseus, Jason, Bellerophon, and confirm, “I can't."

“Well,” he lifts an eyebrow, leaning in conspiratorially as if telling me a deadly piece of gossip. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

I play my part well, and Achilles knows it. We have had this conversation before—many, many years ago. “Tell me.” I still love when he is like this.

“I think I am the first.” His hair glints in the light as he affixes me with a thoughtful gaze. “Do you know why?”

I step closer to him, cupping his cheek. “Why?”

He kisses me, and I melt into his arms. “You,” he says, as our foreheads touch. There is a flame in his gaze. “You’re the reason. It’s because we swore it.”

I grab his hand, feel the joy rush through my veins. He is happy. We are happy. My heart feels like it could burst. This is the man I have loved since I was twelve. Even after years upon years of _Achilles, Achilles, Achilles,_ I could never be sick of his glee. 

Regardless of honor or legacy or vengeance or life, we have always found a way to continue together. And I believe that, finally, he sees that _right now_ is enough.

“I’m glad.” And, knowing what he means to say, I add, “I love you too.”

Achilles grins at me, racing forward, beckoning me to follow. I laugh and comply, moving forwards with him for eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Every comment and kudos warms my heart <3 
> 
> It's been a long, long time since I've written a fanfiction, but here I am haha. I bought Song of Achilles from Barnes and Noble about 24 hours ago, and finished at 3 am. And then the ending absolutely ripped my heart out, and I banged out this (sort-of...) fix-it fic in one long seven hour sitting. Song of Achilles is an amazing book. 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!
> 
> Edit: ahh I suddenly got a large influx of new viewers! welcome to everyone else stuck in post-SoA pain :) my name is Theo, i'm a giant literature nerd, and i hope that you enjoyed reading. please feel free to leave a comment or drop a kudos, it makes my heart happy just like pat when he sees achilles ;)


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